The Princes' Brides: The Italian Prince's Pregnant Bride / The Greek Prince's Chosen Wife / The Spanish Prince's Virgin Bride
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She had a bachelor’s degree in finance. A master’s degree in business. She’d spent her summers since high school interning at SCB.
She knew more about the bank than anyone, maybe even including Grandfather, who still believed in a world devoid of computers and e-mail.
Aimee marched into the bedroom and methodically stripped off the gray wool suit and white silk blouse she’d deemed appropriate for the meeting with Grandfather this afternoon. She’d wanted to look businesslike, even though she knew damned well you could do as much business in jeans as you could in Armani.
She’d even worked up a little speech of assurance about how she wouldn’t change a thing, though she’d mentally crossed her fingers because there were things that definitely needed changing.
She’d presented herself at his office precisely at four. James was a stickler for promptness. She’d kissed his papery cheek, sat down as directed, folded her hands…
And listened as he told her he had not yet reached a decision as to who would replace him.
Be calm, she’d told herself. And she had been, or at least she’d managed to seem calm as she asked him what decision there was to make.
“You already said it would be me, Grandfather.”
“I said it would be someone capable,” James said briskly. “Someone of my lineage.”
“Well—”
The look on his face had frozen her with horror. “You don’t mean…Bradley?”
Bradley. Her cousin. Or her something. Who understood the complexities of second cousins twice removed, or whatever the hell he was? Bradley had been wimping around the bank for years, interning the same as she had, except he’d never done a day’s work, never done anything except try to grope her in the stockroom.
“Not Bradley,” she’d finally breathed.
“Bradley has a degree in economics.”
Yes. From a college that probably also gave degrees in basket-weaving.
“He’s well-spoken.”
He was, once he had three or four straight vodkas in him.
“And,” her grandfather had said, saving the best for last, “he is a man.”
A man. Meaning, nature’s royalty. A prince, whereas she was a lesser creature because she was female.
Grandfather had risen to his feet, indicating that she was no longer welcome in the royal presence.
“Be here Monday morning, Aimee. Ten o’clock sharp. I’ll announce my decision then.”
Dismissed, just like that.
Sent out the door, down the wheezing old elevator, into the street where she’d walked blindly, no idea where in hell she was or where she was going, which was why she hadn’t seen the man and he’d almost knocked her down.
That despicable, horrible man who’d insisted it was she who’d walked into him. Who’d accused her of not being a woman when, damn him, it was the very fact that she was a woman that was going to deny her the one thing she wanted in life.
What a fool she’d been. What an idiot. She’d turned down two wonderful job offers because she’d believed—she’d been stupid enough to believe—
She’d been anguishing over that when the man charged into her.
As if she were invisible, which she undoubtedly was because she was female. Oh, the arrogance of men. Of him. The way he’d clasped her shoulders and looked down at her from the lofty heights of his lofty maleness.
“Easy,” he’d said, and smiled, and that—the smile, the slight foreign huskiness to the word, the broad shoulders, the ink-black hair, the midnight-blue eyes and the face that was the male equivalent of what had launched a thousand ships, that was supposed to make up for his rudeness?
Aimee had told him what she thought of him.
Men didn’t like honesty. She’d learned that a long time ago. And this one, this—this bad-mannered stranger, had decided she needed a lesson, that she needed a graphic reminder of her place in the universe…
He’d kissed her.
Kissed her! Put his mouth on hers, the arrogant, miserable son of a bitch…
His firm mouth. His soft mouth. His mouth that was, any woman could tell, made for long, deep kisses…
God, she was in bad shape. Anger, adrenaline, whatever you called it, was pumping through her veins. She was completely stressed out.
A man would know what to do to ease such stress.
He’d go to a gym and sweat it out. Actually that would work for her, too, but her gym, a gym for women, was closed. Hey, it was Saturday. Date night for the fairer sex, right?
“Such crap,” Aimee said.
She could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears.
Or a man would call up his buddies, meet them someplace crowded and noisy and guzzle beer. That’s what men under pressure did, didn’t they? Go out, drink, talk about stupid things, pick up women?
Sex was the great relaxer. Everybody said so. Okay, not her because she’d had sex and it had been far from memorable but according to everything she’d read, sex could lower your stress levels every time.
Aimee snorted.
Imagine if a woman did that. Called a friend, went someplace loud to drink and looked for a guy to pick up. Went to bed with him, no strings, no ridiculous exchange of names and phone numbers. Just bed.
Just sex.
Of course, some women did. They went looking for sex.
Sex with a stranger. A stranger with dark hair. Blue eyes. A square jaw, straight nose, firm mouth. And that little accent…
The phone rang. Let it. Her voice mail could take the call.
Hi, her recorded voice said briskly. You’ve reached 555-6145. Please leave a message after the tone.
“Aimee, it’s Jen.”
The last person she wanted to talk to! Jen had taken a job with Fox and Curtrain after Aimee pointed her toward it.
“I’m not going to take it,” she’d said, “so why shouldn’t you?”
Why, indeed?
“Aimee, look, I know this isn’t your thing but a new club opened right near me and it’s supposed to draw a hot crowd. And it’s Laura’s birthday, remember her, from the second floor in our dorm? She’s in town and a bunch of us are getting together to, you know, check out the club…” There was giggling in the background and Aimee rolled her eyes. “Okay, Laura’s right. To check out the guys, see if they’re as hunky as everybody says.”
“Jen?” Aimee said, picking up the phone.
“Oh, you’re there! Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing tonight, but—”
“I’m not doing anything. I’ve had—it’s been one of those days, you know?”
“All the more reason to go with us. Have a drink, listen to some hot music—”
“Get picked up by some hot guy,” a female voice in the background said, to another round of giggles.
“That’s the last thing I need,” Aimee said. “I mean, is that all I’m good for? To go to a club where the music’s so loud I won’t be able to think? To let a guy pick me up, buy me a drink—”
“Yeah. I know. It’s a meat market out there—but sometimes, well, sometimes that can be fun. You know. No BS. Just an evening of fun and games.”
“It’s bad enough men think that’s what we’re all about. That we’re useless except in the kitchen or the bedroom. We don’t have to play into their stupid fantasy.”
Silence. Then Jen cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said carefully, “so just forget that I—”
“Not that I couldn’t be some jerk’s idea of a centerfold playmate, if I wanted.”
“Uh, Aimee, look, I have to run, so—”
“I could go to this club with you. Dance, drink, let some guy pick me up for a night of mind-blowing sex!”
The telephone line hummed with silence again. Then Jen spoke.
“So, uh, are you saying you want to go with us?”
Aimee took a deep, deep breath. “You’re damned right I am,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in a red silk dress she’d bought on sale and never had a reason to wear, ditto for a pair of strappy gold sandals, Aimee took a last look in the mirror, gave her image a quick salute, then headed out the door.
Chapter Two
LUCAS’S CLUB was everything Damian had promised.
Like most hot Manhattan nightspots, it was in a neighborhood that had once been grungy and commercial and now was grungy and upscale. Streets that had once been relegated to the nitty-gritty of daily life now came alive after dark. Warehouses had given way to expensive, exclusive clubs.
Lucas’s place was located in a dark brick building with shuttered windows. There was no sign to indicate that what had once been a factory was now Le Club Hot.
No sign. No published telephone number. You either knew the club existed or you didn’t, which went a long way toward sorting out the clientele, Nicolo thought wryly as he opened a heavy, brass-hinged door and stepped, with Damian, into what might have been the small lobby of an upscale hotel.
The behemoth who greeted them was not someone you’d ever find behind a reception desk. They gave him their names, he checked a list, then smiled.
He pressed a button, and the wall ahead of them slid back.
“Wow,” Damian said softly.
Nicolo had to agree. “Wow” summed it up.
The first thing you noticed was the noise. Music, heavy on bass, went straight into your blood.
Then you realized that the room you’d walked into was huge.
The designer had carefully left the exposed overhead pipes and old brick walls but everything else—the lighting, the endless Lucite bar, the elevated dance floor and the music—was dazzlingly modern.
“You could play American football in here,” Damian murmured. “Especially since the place comes equipped with so many cheerleaders.”
He grinned, and Nicolo grinned back at him. It was true. The room was filled with people, more than half of them women. Young. Stunning. Sexy. Faces recognizable from European and American magazine covers and movies.
What an idiot he’d been, letting what happened this afternoon get him worked up. Damian had it right. This was what he needed. Lights. Music.
Women.
This was the way to relax.
“Barbieri! Aristedes!”
Lucas was making his way through the crowd toward them. The men exchanged handshakes and then Lucas rolled his eyes and grabbed them both in a bear hug.
“Ugly as always,” he said, raising his voice over the pulsating beat of the music, “but not to worry. I’ve told a bunch of lies about you both and made you sound so interesting that people are willing to meet you, despite your looks.”
The three of them grinned. Then Lucas pointed toward a suspended, transparent staircase.
“My table’s up there,” he shouted. “On the mezzanine. It’s quieter…and the view is óptimo!”
He was right. The table overlooked the dance floor and the sound level dropped from deafening to ear-shattering.
And the view was, indeed, excellent.
“What scenery,” Damian said.
He meant, of course, the women. Nicolo nodded in agreement. He’d already acknowledged that the scenery was spectacular. All those lithe, gyrating bodies. The lovely faces…
Was there a woman on the dance floor with eyes the color of violets? With hair the honey-gold of a tigress?
“Nicolo? Which do you prefer?”
Nicolo blinked. Lucas and Damian were looking at him, along with a girl in gold hot pants and a skimpy black tank top.
“To drink,” Lucas said, with a little laugh. “Whiskey? Champagne? The club special? It’s a Mojito. You know, rum, lime juice—”
“Whiskey,” Nicolo said, and told himself to stop being a fool and start having a good time.
But that was a problem.
It turned out you couldn’t have a good time just by telling yourself to have one. You had to relax before you had fun, and now that the woman with the violet eyes had pushed her way into his head, he knew damned well “fun” wasn’t going to happen.
No matter how much he tried.
He ate. He drank. He listened while Lucas and Damian caught up on old times. The three of them hadn’t seen each other in months; there was a lot to talk about and he forced himself to join in the conversation.
After a while, his thoughts drifted. To the woman. To how he’d dealt with her. The more he thought, the angrier he became.
At her.
At himself.
What kind of man let a woman make a fool of him?
“Nicolo?”
Another blink, this time at Damian, who was watching him through slightly narrowed eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Sure. I told you, it’s—it’s this meeting Monday, and—”
Lucas snorted. “My friend, you’re as transparent as glass. What’s on your mind is a woman.”
No. It wasn’t true. Well, yes. There was a woman on his mind but not in the way Lucas meant.
There were no women in his life to think about.
He’d ended an affair a month ago, and grazie a Dio that he had. The lady in question had been like so many others, beautiful and accommodating at first, then simply beautiful and boring.
But then, that was in the nature of things—or was it? Somehow, he couldn’t envision the blonde with the violet eyes ever being accommodating or boring.
She would always be a challenge.
Any other woman, given the situation, would have accepted the apology he’d offered. Hell, any other woman would have done more than that.
He was always lucky with women. They liked him and he liked them. So, any other woman would have smiled and said it was nice of him to say it was his fault but, really, it was hers.
And he’d have understood her smile, returned one of his own and said, well, perhaps they might have a drink while they decided who owed whom an apology…
Nicolo brought his bourbon on the rocks to his lips and took a long drink.
Damn it, the woman was haunting him and for a reason that was insulting.
Such insolence! Why had he tolerated it? Such audacity! And he’d let her get away with it.
His eyes narrowed.
What she’d needed was a real lesson in how a woman should behave. Not that pale excuse of a kiss but something she would have remembered, something that would have shaken her loose of that cold disdain.
He should have dragged her against his body. Taken her mouth, parted her lips with his and filled her with his taste. Let her understand that she was female and he was male and despite the ridiculous conventions of this misbegotten century, what that meant was that he held supremacy when it came to things such as this.
But he had done none of those things. And now, for all he knew, somewhere in this vast city she was laughing at him. At how easily she’d cut him down to size.
Laughing, perhaps, with her lover.
A woman with a face like a madonna’s would surely have a lover.
Would he be a man she could command? Yes. Of course. And what a pity that was because what the lady needed was a lover whose touch would make her tremble. Whose kisses would melt her icy hauteur. Who would make love to her until she begged for mercy…
“Barbieri!”
Nicolo forced the darkness away, looked at the expressions on his friends’ faces—and realized that he had held his glass so tightly it had shattered.
Whiskey puddled on the table.
“Merda,” he growled, and dabbed furiously at the spreading pond of golden liquid with a napkin.
“Never mind that. Did you cut yourself?”
Had he? Nicolo checked.
“No. Not a scratch.” He forced a laugh and held out his hand. “See? Relax, Reyes. There won’t be a lawsuit.”
But Lucas wasn’t buying into the poor attempt at humor.
“Amigo, I’m not the one who needs to relax. You’re wound tighter than a spring.”
Nicolo thought about denying it but what was the point? These men knew him too well.
“You’re right. I am, and I’m sorry I’m spoiling your evening.” He pushed back his chair. “The truth is, I can’t keep my mind on things tonight, so I’m going to head back to my hotel. I told you, that meeting—”
“We’ve known you too long to fall for that. Tough negotiations don’t stress you, Barbieri. You live for them.” Laughing, Damian nudged Lucas in the ribs with his elbow. “It’s a woman. Admit it.”
Nicolo gave a deliberately careless shrug. Maybe if he made light of it…
“Okay,” he said, “it is. But I’ll get over it.”
“Of course you will.” Lucas leaned closer. “And I know the quickest way to do it. It’s like drinking, Nicolo. Remember, back in college? The hair of the dog cure after too much partying? You wake with a hangover, you get rid of it by taking a drink. Well, you have a woman on the brain, you cure that by—”
“Lucas,” a soft voice purred, “darling Lucas, here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.”
Five women had materialized beside the table. All stunning. All smiling as if they’d found the lost treasure of the Amazons.
“The hair of the dog, my man,” Damian whispered, and Nicolo thought, Why not?
Chairs were dragged over. Introductions were made. Champagne corks popped. After a few minutes, one of the women—her name was Vicki—turned to Nicolo.
“Lucas tells me you’re a royal”
Nicolo looked over her shoulder. Lucas grinned and winked.
“Lucas is a comedian,” he said.
“I’m famous, too.” She giggled. “Well, not yet but someday. Maybe you’ve seen me? I’ve been in—”
A list of plays. Or TV shows. Or something. He didn’t know, didn’t care, and stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. When could he get out of here without insulting the lady or putting a damper on the party?
Not that she wasn’t beautiful. And friendly. She smiled a lot. Put her hand on his arm. Asked him the questions a man likes to be asked.
It was an old game, one he’d played often. The outcome was always understood. And pleasant.
Amazingly pleasant.
He felt his blood tingle. Damian was right. Lucas, too. This was what he needed. A willing, beautiful woman. A game with a predictable ending. A night’s pleasure.
Wasn’t it bad enough the woman with the violet eyes had made a fool of him once? Was he going to let her do it again by keeping him from what waited for him now?
Nicolo pushed back his chair. Took Vicki’s hand.
“Dance with me.”
He led her down the steps to the dance floor. Salsa music blasted the air, its insistent beat almost as sexual as the moves of Vicki’s ripe body lightly brushing his.
Yes. This was good. This was what he needed…
But it wasn’t. It was the wrong body, teasing his. The wrong face, lifted to his and smiling. The wrong eyes, filled with heat and desire.
Basta, he thought in disgust, and he put his arms around the woman and brought her tightly against him as the music segued into something slow and sexy.
She settled close against him as if she’d been waiting for the invitation. Her hair tickled his nose. It was stiff and smelled of hairspray.
Those honeyed curls this afternoon had been soft and fragrant with rain.
“It’s terribly noisy here,” Vicki said, her breath warm against his ear.
Why don’t we find a quieter place? That was the next line. His, or in these days of supposed equality, it could be—
“Why don’t we find a quieter place?” she whispered.
Nicolo cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said, “I think that’s—I think it’s—” An excellent idea. “I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that,” he heard himself say.
She looked as surprised as he felt but, damn it, he didn’t want this woman.
No substitutes, he thought as the music began to pound again, and the need, the desire he’d been suppressing all these hours ignited and threatened to consume him.
He knew what he wanted. What he needed. And there had to be a way, had to be something he could do to—
Nicolo caught his breath. He stopped dancing, let the other dancers and the music swirl around him.
There she was!
Honey-colored curls. Violet eyes. The woman who was driving him insane. No black suede coat. No hood. No boots. Instead she wore a clinging scrap of crimson silk that barely covered her body. Gold sandals, all straps and sky-high, needle-sharp heels. She was dancing, if you wanted to call it that. Moving in a man’s arms. Breasts swaying. Hips rotating. Head up, eyes locked to the man’s face, mouth turned up in a smile…
A smile she had denied him.
“Nicolo?”
Vicki, whatever her name was, said his name. Said something more and put her hand on his chest. He brushed it aside. Stepped away. Abandoned her in the middle of the crowded dance floor.
The part of his brain that was of this century knew all that. Knew, too, that his response to the events of the afternoon might not be entirely rational.
But the part that was as old, as savagely male, as time whispered, This is what I want. And I’m going to have it.
And Nicolo heard nothing else.
The music had turned wild; the throbbing pulse matched the insistent thump of his blood, the beat of his heart…
The fury eating inside him.
Fate, always capricious, had decided to favor him tonight. The woman who’d made a fool of him was here.
Now, he could even the score.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, eyes locked to his quarry. She was oblivious to him. Good, he thought grimly. He wanted to reach her before she had time to think.
But halfway there, she suddenly stopped dancing. Her partner said something; she didn’t answer. Instead she moved out of his arms and stood like a doe at the edge of a clearing, sensing the presence of a hungry predator.
Later, Nicolo would wonder if it weren’t the whole world that had gone still and waited, waited, waited.
A minute, an eternity, swept by. Then the blonde raised her head and looked directly at him.
He let a tight smile curve his mouth. Whatever beat its wings within him must have been in that smile, because the color drained from her face.
She took a step back.
He thought, again, of the doe.
Run, he thought.
And, just as if she’d read his mind, the woman with the violet eyes swung away from him and fled.
Nicolo didn’t hesitate. He went after her.
Chapter Three
YOU COULDN’T end up in the same place with the same man twice in one day. Not in a town the size of New York.
At first, when she saw him, Aimee told herself it had to be some other tall, dark-haired guy. There were tons of dark-haired, good-looking men in the city.
A second glance and that hope vanished. It was the overbearing, supermacho jerk who’d kissed her. It had to be. The truth was, nobody else would be as…
All right. No other man could possibly be as easy on the eyes. He was despicable—but he was gorgeous.
The last few minutes, she’d felt…What? A premonition? She didn’t believe in any of that stuff, but how else to explain that tingle at her nape? That feeling that eyes were following her as she danced with Tom or Tim or, dear God, she couldn’t even remember the name of the guy who’d bought her a drink, then led her onto the dance floor.
He was nice enough. Good-looking enough. And he was working hard at making an impression.
And he wasn’t the stranger from this afternoon.
No way would Tom, or whoever he was, grab a woman and kiss her, look at her through icy deep-blue eyes in a way that would make the memory of him lodge itself in her brain.
She hated men like the Neanderthal, no matter how hot-looking a Neanderthal he might be.
So, yes, it was good that the guy dancing with her wasn’t like that…Wasn’t it?
Of course it was.
He’d been coming on to her like crazy. And she’d tried her best to respond. Smiled. Laughed. Gone onto the dance floor and did her best to lose herself in the music, working off her frustrations to its insistent beat the way she’d have worked them off in the gym.
And then, suddenly, she’d felt a tingle, as if someone was watching her.